


Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

by KirscheLeibling



Category: Watchmen (Comic), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Crime, Dystopia, F/M, Killing, M/M, Mindfuck, registration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KirscheLeibling/pseuds/KirscheLeibling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all of the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "save us!"... </i></p><p><i>...and I will look down and whisper "no".</i></p><p>Political killings? No, someone is killing costumed mutants, and <i>Magneto</i> wants to know who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Watchmen!AU. didn't you know I'm a geek for that? Ooh and V for Vendetta but that's being done already. Same plot-ish, differences are palpable, though.
> 
> Me: Dude. Watchmen!AU  
> Jaz: Pfft--Hahahaha! Totally just pictured Erik as the silk specter!
> 
> ARTISTS. WE NEED THIS IN OUR LIVES!! XD
> 
>  _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_  
>  "Who watches the Watchmen?"

The sky is ablaze with red and orange, side-effects of the toxic fumes these filthy humans are pumping into the last remnants of oxygen they can taint with their stupidity, with their vanity. Ignorance runs amuck in their veins, in the city and through the government they mindlessly follow, like cattle. Do they see how they look? They amble, one after another, thinking themselves free when they are lined up in a single gated path, walking deeper into the Machine, just waiting for the slaughter, falling into the greasy little hands of those politicians that they elect blindly. There is no good choice, they all live in a fantasy when they're really living in the dark, a gun pressed into their mouths like inverse-Russian roulette.

They think _they're_ the lucky ones. They don't know that the barrel is full.

They look down on those that are different, like pests, like something they smashed in the bottom of their heels, grimacing in repulsion as they snidely walk on. _They_ are the parasites, _they_ are the lesser beings, the step under the evolutionary ladder.

They found the mutants, hunted them down; they made society into the broken shambles that foul New York. The Registrations in '77, '79 and '81 sought to that. They used the mutants to fight their battles, to die in their wars, they used the mutants as scapegoats, left them to rot in prisons and camps, turned around and preached about "equal rights" and "progress", tossing words like "reform" and "equality" to satisfy the public as they continued their systematic _slaughter_.

 **  
Magneto's Journal.  
October 12th, 1985**   


>   
> 
> 
> The streets are swamped with blood. The city cowers as I walk by. They fear me, I have seen the true nature to their _'humanity'_.
> 
> The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all of the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "save us!"...
> 
> ...and I will look down and whisper "no".
> 
> They had the will to fight this, all of this. They could have broken out of the conformity, from the shallow masses but they didn't. They followed the men that looked the best, who's empty promises sounded the most realistic, wiped their blood-stainded hands on the flag that they marched under.
> 
> They had the decision. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice.
> 
> Now they look down from the brink of utter destruction, and all of those men that so gallantly spoke, with as much enthusiasm as the _Third Reich_ , all of those liberals and intellectuals, the men with unwavering morals and steel morale--
> 
> \--now no one says a word.

The two detectives observe the living room with keen yet uninterested eyes, taking in the thousands of splinters and glass shards that litter the light mint carpet. One of the first officers on the scene are talking into a receiver outside the front door, and the detectives partner is eying the chain lock that dangles pathetically on the door from it's connection's hinge. He turns back to the street where an old man is hosing down the large Puddle of blood into the sewer.

"That's _quite_ a drop." He says blandly as small shards from the broken balcony take the plummet down. His blond partner makes a noncommittal humming noise before turning around, the lock's broken end piece in between his two fingers. A slender eyebrow raises as he speaks.

"Well, it looks like someone broke in by bustin' the door." he flicks his cigarette out the door and exhales a cloud of gray-black smoke before continuing. "Either there where two really buff guys that broke down th'door or a super-strong mutant. Those damn De _gene_ rets." He curses under his breath. "It was locked from the inside so the victim was home when they came a-knockin'."

"Warren, _I saw_ the body. This 'James Howlette' cat was one beefy mother fucker. He had muscles like a fucking tank--" The detective pauses for a moment. "Must've put up a hell of a fight--guys like that don't just _go down_ , ya' hear me?"

 _The man is tossed against the glass mirror that stands as tall as the wall and three feet wide, his eyes clenching shut as the impact sends the jagged pieces into his back, shredding the flesh and piercing the muscles. one good fist to the face and he's reeling once more, bloody and disoriented. The cigar he was smoking is still lit beside a glass of whiskey, the chair still warm from whence he had sat._

 _He's bleeding on the floor, coughing and hacking and groaning because this is all new to him--wounds that do not heal, a foe he can not fight._

 _Arms come round his neck, he rises from the floor. Fists clench at his shirt and he's powerless, can't fight back, can't do a thing._

 _The pain is too much. He can't muster energy to be shocked._

The detective stares at the broken mirror and grimace at the cracks that reflect his very gaze, marred with drying blood. The detective stares at a photo of the victim, short but packed with muscles, hair slicked and grin smug, shaking hands with the Secretary of Arms during the Great War. His blond partner turns away from the mirror, a question in his gaze.

"From the info we have on him he must've been on some Diplomatic work for a few years. Lotta expensive shit."

"Must have gotten soft." His partner shrugs.

"Harr-Harr." The detective rolls his eyes. "Some money got stolen, but there's no way this could have been a simple robbery. Someone _really_ had it out for this guy. I mean, he got tossed out the fucking window." The detective shifts slightly, the window open and breeze filtering in through the gaping opening. His partner gives only a curt nod and they head out the door and into the hallway of the complex and towards the elevator.

"Maybe he tripped against it?" Detective Washington finally offers.

"Forget it, man. That's some strong-ass glass. Even a bulky guy like Howlette wouldn't be able to break it. I think you'd have to be thrown."

 _The arms that clutch his shirt tighten and he freezes for a moment, eyes wide. Fuck. Fuck--no, no nonono!--_

 _They toss him seamlessly into the glass and he feels the heavy, double-panel glass gives way under the brute impact. He's weightless, falling and falling faster and faster._

 _He catches the light on his attacker's face, gasps out the name, and then--_

 _Impact._

 _Darkness._

"So was this a burglary or does this have some other motive?" Detective Washington asks, watching the descending numbers on the elevator's dull signal.

"It could have been a burglary, maybe just some drugged up guy that wanted to have some fun--" The elevator open adn they walk out of the building and down the stairs away from the whole scene.

"So what are ya' saying, Drake?"

"I'm saying that maybe we shouldn't start kicking up dirt. Don't want any Masked Avengers interested on the case. We'll do follow ups behind the scenes, ya' know? Away from the light, out of the public's eye..."

They start walking back to the station, shoulder's bumping as they speak in low, hushed words.

"I think you're taking the whole 'vigilante' thing too seriously, ever since the Keene Act in '83 you know that the only masked freaks that are still loose are the government sponsored ones. And not even _those_ interfere." Washington snorts.

"'Cept for Magneto." Drake grins.

"Magneto never retired. Not even when he and his buddies fell outta grace. He's still out there somewhere." Washington mock-shudders. "Guys a little crazy if ya' ask me. We have a nice little homicide of a political guy.." Washington pauses as they continue in a quick stride.

"Wha's wrong?" Drake asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh, nothing." Washington doesn't look convinces. "Just a little cold." and he bumps shoulders against a tall, angular man in order to stick close to his partner. The man turns subtly, his mossy green eyes following them until they're out of sight. His stoic mask slips and he grins toothily before walking down the street, pulling his brown leather jacket closer against the cold wind of the night.

 

* * *

 

The streets are vacant, lifeless; the faint remnants of scarlet stain the concrete sidewalk and the lone figure approaches, his shadow looming across the concrete slabs. A small glint catches his eye and he crouches down be the sewer intake. The object slaps into his open and waiting palm. It's a metal pin, black and silver; the round pin has a silver perimeter, a silver X crossing through, and there's a single, dried spot of blood at the center.

He shoves it in his pocket and enters the building.

The elevator is empty, but there's no need for a worker to be there. He sighs and clenches his fist, lifting it just as the elevator begins to raise. He stops where he counts the twenty-third floor and forces the elevator to stop, pries open the door and steps under all of the yellow tape. He clicks on his flashlight and maneuvers around the destruction.

Once in the main bedroom, he stops.

Stretching out his senses, he feels an anomaly--a hidden panel behind the closet. He walks towards the closet, depositing the flashlight on the bed so that it lit up the entire closet space. He feels for any switch or lever and feels one, just behind the clothes hangar. He presses the button and waits for the wall to slide.

He doesn't expect, well _this_.

The wall had slid to the left mechanically, revealing a yellow and navy mask, a leather costume and some of the most intricate weaponry known to man. He looked at all the objects with a keen eye and took them down, placed them on the floor as if one where to wear them, and found, behind all of the costume, a few framed news clipper articles and a photo, nostalgic, old, and fading orange with age.

There's a man in a yellow mask with blue claw marks, a woman in all white, another man, more familiar, that brings all of the old sentiments--hurt, anger, love-- with shining blue eyes, a bright smile and a blue and yellow leather suit, a young woman in a black and white dress with mostly short brown hair that tapers long at the front, long and white hair that is framing her grinning face, and another woman, a stunning blonde with flushed cheeks that is sticking out her tongue, beside her is a younger man with dark glasses.

But besides the one with the cheerful blue eyes, is him, a pleased smile on his lips, an arm slung around the other.

 _Rogue, Magneto, Professor, Mystique, Scott the White Queen and Wolverine._

Magneto looks back at the laid out clothes and frowns to himself.

"It's all in the past. It's all in the past--"

 

* * *

 

"--I turn the corner and _BAM!_ I'm face to face with Mesmero, that guy Vincent something, in the middle of the _dairy_ isle! Mesmero, you remember him, right?" Scott asks, motioning with a cigaret in his hand..

"I think so..." Hank replies, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, there we where, and I'm thinking 'holy--he thinks I'm Cyclops, he's gonna kill me!' but no, he just talked to me about himself and--oh, he's a devout catholic now, since he's got kids 'n everything... oh, it's getting late, time flies when you're thinking about the past." Scott grins and gets up with Hank.

"Mm, you should get going, it's dangerous to be out so late, especially now-a-days." Hank nods, walking with Scott to the door.

"Sorry if I bored you." Scott teases with a laugh.

"Nah, you know these get-togethers keep me sane." Hank grins, and is surprised at the amount of honesty laced in his tone. They're at the door and Hank get Scott his jacket, hands it over to the aging ex-vigilante, grinning at the roll of eyes behind the long repulsor he knoes is there.

"Damn shame you quit, you where the best replacement, better hero I ever was." Scott grins as Hank opens the door.

"BS and you know it." Hank calls out after him, shoving his glasses up his nose with a quirked eyebrow. Scott's laughter follows him as he closes the door. Hank sighs and flinches at the light turned on in his kitchen, at the distinct rattling of metal. He gasps as he opens the door and E--no, _Magneto_ is leaning against his table, flipping something metal ( not the _Reichsmark_ Hank tells himself, trying to lift himself out of the murky memories of the past) between his fingers idly.

"Magneto?" Hank finally asks, his voice lower than he'd like.

"Let myself in. Hope you don't mind." Magneto says, uncrossing his legs, boots thudding on the tile floor. Hank stutters a 'no' as Erik finally stands. Hank won't lie, he's... a little intimidated, Magneto is tall, broad shouldered with his leather jacket, dark black pants and boots.

"Uh, L-Long time no see?" Hank tries for casual but knows it came out a little pathetic. He shrugs out of his coat and throws it across the table, trying damn hard to Avoid that piercing hazel gaze. "How are you keeping?"

"Out of prison so far." E--Magneto shrugs. "Hey--catch." The coin flies through the air and Hank catches it instinctively, surveys the familiar but unknown insignia before cocking his head.

"What the hell is on it?"

"Blood." Magneto says simply, as if it's an everyday thing. Hank shudders at the thought that maybe, to Magneto, it is an everyday thing. "It belonged to Logan, 'Wolverine'. He's dead."

"D-Dead!?" Hank spudders, his head snapping towards Magneto. "What the--what are you talking about!?"

"Investigated a routine homicide for one James Howlette, turned out to be Logan. Was tossed out of his window, all the way from the thirty-second floor."

"S-somebody..." Hank repeats, then shakes his head and opens a faded violet door. "Maybe we should talk, you know, er.. in more private quarters." Hank shoulders the door the rest of the way and Erik follows into the room, alcove-cave and Hank flicks on the light. The Black-Bird jet is there, in all of it's old glory; chains and hooks are drooping from metal beams and in the corner there are a series of counters with beakers and scientific jargan.

"You, uhh, haven't been down here for a while." Hank states blandly, eying Magneto warily as he slides a finger across the Black Bird's dusty wing.

"Neither have you." Magneto retorts curtly. He leans against one of the support beams and waits for Hank to continue.

"Well, about Wolverine-- couldn't it have been a petty crime? Robbery gone wrong? I mean, that bastard wouldn't go down without a fight..." Hank drags on.

"That's ridiculous. No robbery would have killed off Wolverine. "

"Well, I guess it isn't very likely..." Hank sighs and leans against the wall beside the long passage from the tunnel opening. "I heard from Ch--the Professor," Hank corrects with a wince, catching the glint in Magneto's eyes (a flash of _Erik_ )," that he was doing government stuff, maybe... political killing?"

"Maybe." Magneto nods his head and turns away slowly," or maybe someone is picking off costumed mutants." Magneto pushes off the beam and starts towards Hank.

"That sounds... a little paranoid." Hank points out.

"Is that what he's calling me now?" Magneto half growls. "Whatever. Thought I'd let you know in case someone _is_ gunning for masks. Gotta go, things to do. People to scare." Magneto is already a few feet in the tunnel when Hank shouts:

"The tunnel takes you two blocks away, behind the warehouse!"

"I remember" Magneto calls back. "From when we were still partners!"

"Those where great times...whatever happened to them?"

The silence stretched out until Magneto's voice echoed down the tunnel.

"You quit."

 

* * *

 

"Logan is dead?" The White Queen's voice is laced with surprise, a complete contrast to her stoic demeanor. "But why?"

"Richest person in the world with infinite sources of knowledge at your disposal, you tell _me._ " Erik replies gruffly, glaring heatedly at the blond bombshell. Her skirt hikes up slightly as she crosses her legs, knee-high boots clocking against each other.

"I never claimed to be the smartest person in the world." She purrs. "Maybe...political killing? Russia or the Cubans?" She tries.

"McCoy said the same thing." Magneto sighs. "The US has Ch--the Professor. They wouldn't raise a finger against a friend of his. I think we have a Mask-Killer." Magneto tries to ignore the glint in those icy blue eyes.

"Erik--"

"DON'T call me Erik." Magneto growls. He eyes the empty, wide office, from the porcelain floors to the white walls--everything is so pristine it makes his head hurt.

"Mm, well with _Charles_ on our side I don't see how Logan's death is anything but unfortunate. The guy was a brute." The White Queen scoffs.

"Yeah, a brute but he fought for the country, for mutants. He didn't whore his story out, his identity, in posters and books and newspapers. I'd take a brute over a prostitute any day." Erik says stonily, already heading for the door.

"Listen here!" Emma shouts, furious. "What happened back then--that wasn't _my_ fault, Shaw and you and Charles--"

"--Don't say his name so easily!" Erik shouts back, turning away from the door. "And don't you dare say you had nothing to do with it. You where, what, only fucking the enemy, right Emma?" Erik growls. Emma pales visibly before biting back any retort she might have shouted. "Damn straight." He mutters and, as he walks by the door, turns around.

"And Logan was killed by a mutant."

"How do you know that?" She asks, curiosity softening her tone.

"He would have healed."

 

* * *

 

 **Erik Lehnsherr's Journal.  
October 13th, 1985. 8:30 p.m.**   


> Meeting with Frost left a bad taste in my mouth. She's pompous and decadant, betraying and shallow to the core.
> 
> McCoy was just as bad.
> 
> Why are there so few of us left active, healthy or sane?
> 
> Rogue is gone, MIA since ~~that day~~ , McCoy is a sullen failure, Frost is still the Public's Mutant CEO of a technology company and Logan is dead.
> 
> That leaves only two more on my list.
> 
> I'll tough it up and see them; they're both living at the Rockerfeller Military Research Center. I'll have to tell the Professor and Mystique that someone's out to kill them, kill _us_. Will they even listen? Will they even care?
> 
> I have to try.
> 
> I'm doing this for ~~him~~ them.

 

"Good evening, Erik." Charles says from behind a stack of books, eyes not straying from the pages.

"Good Evening, Charles." Erik replies as smoothly as he can, keeping his mind clear of any and all stray thoughts.

"What the hell are you doing here, Erik, or should I call you 'Magneto' now?" Raven spits, her blue skin shifting back into the light tone she uses to hid, uses around strangers. Erik can't help the steady rush of guilt-pain-sorry-guilt that rushes though him; can't stop the bitter thought of how things used to be, how Raven had trusted him just sh he had trusted her.

"Raven, really." Charles sighs and pushes a few stray locks of hair from his eyes, his clear, beautiful blue eyes that are glued to Erik. "And, really Erik, you're the only one that is still clinging to the past. You where already forgiven. You just haven;t forgiven yourself."

"You promised you'd never look." Erik growls, surprised by his own harshness.

"Yes, well a lot of people make promises they never intend to keep." Charles retorts coolly, his eyes cold. "Luckily for me, you tossed your thoughts at me like bricks so I couldn't ignore them."

Erik really can't reply to that.

"What the hell do you want then!?" Raven snaps, standing besides Charles' desk.

"Logan is dead." Erik says, finally out of his stupor. "And I think--"

"We heard Saturday morning." Raven states with a roll of her eyes.

"Raven, darling, Erik is trying to say that he thinks that someone out there is killing mutants." Charles hushes and smiles sheepishly. "I had to get a scan for what you wanted. Protocol."

"Like he has a problem with killing mutants--"

"Raven!" Charles shouts and slams his fists on the table, lifting up from his seat. Three of the books in the stacks before him slammed against the wall on the far side of the room. Charles' eyes where squeezed shut, breathing harshly and fists clenched.A few minutes of silence passed with only Charles' harsh breathing between them.

"Get out." Charles chokes out, not even shifting. Raven eyes Erik warily before nearing Charles cautiously. "Now! Get out!" Charles boomed and Raven flinched and took a step back, then another. She looked... terrified, scared witless of Charles, the man that had taken care of her since she was a child, that took a hit for her from another mutant and the sight of it strengthened his resolve.

"No! We have to talk! About _this_ about what happened--" But the room began to spin and he felt it, a painful nudge in his mind and everything turned dark.

 

* * *

 

"Shit, it's really late. I'm so sorry about dinner, Hank--" Raven rants, sitting back on the park bench.

"Nah, It's okay. We can stay here if you'd like. I have nothing against cool air and the starry night sky." Hank risks a small smile that turns into a full-blown grin when it's returned. He feels his cheeks heat up. "So what dragged you down?"

"Ugh Erik came by."

"How'd that go?" Genuine curiosity. Hank hopes he doesn't have to help Raven hide a body.

"Well Charles is watching over him for now, made the poor bastard go to sleep." Raven waggles her fingers by her temple, a fond, nostalgic gesture that Hank misses very much. "Can I crash with you? 'Cause when Magneto wakes up I don't want to be there. For the talk and whatever happens after."

"Sure, and what do you mean by 'after'?" Hank tilts his head at an angle, watching raven's profile, blue skin, yellow eyes, the stars above, trees behind and the lake just beyond.

God, She's beautiful.

"Well, if they honestly talk, then either Charles is going to kill Erik or fuck his brains out. Either way I think I shold steer clear for 24 hours. Maybe more if it's the latter." Raven turns to him and quirks a brow.

"Oh. OH--Oh, ew, gross, I don't want to picture Mags and the Proff, ugh" Hank furrows his brows and shakes his head,

"Well, I can keep you company. It's a lonely, dead night. Can't you hear the wolves howlin'?" Raven jokes and Hank has to laugh.

"Well, what do you expect?"

He fingers the metal pin in his pocket.

"...Wolverine is dead."


	2. Come Together, Together Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When things came together, everything fell apart. It was like looking at a large puzzle, and everything was fitting perfectly. The pieces began to fall and the big picture crumbled away. Tell me, Erik, why did you leave? Why have things come to this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because history is made with each tick-tock of the clock and the lies we promise will end us
> 
> Who was saving who?
> 
>  
> 
> AN: for some reason the story editor keeps saying that this chapter is still a draft and it's not appearing as a new chapter :\

It's dark and painful, but Erik doesn't want to wake up. His head feels like someone is feeding electricity into his cranium, like someone took a brick at each hand and slammed them against his temples. Erik's body is heavy with fatigue, the muscles tense and his jaw is clenched; his heart is beating as if he where sleeping, at ease, but breathing is a labored chore.

It's dark and painful, and a soft, gentle voice is speaking to him, speaking in some arcane language his jumbled brain can't make much out of; right now it's all garble, intelligible syllables and sounds he hears, he listens to but can not comprehend, can not understand.

"When things came together, everything fell apart." It says, and to Erik the words are meaningless, it's the sentiment, the way the voice seems to crack and lower in volume at the end of the statement. There is no hesitation, just a cold, hard fact. "It was like looking at a large puzzle, and everything was fitting perfectly. The pieces began to fall and the big picture crumbled away." The voice pauses and Erik almost wants to cry, wants to move to as long as the voice continues. Just listening to the smooth accent is healing a wound in him, ailing something he hadn't even known was wrong. "Tell me, Erik, why did you leave? Why have things come to this?"

The darkness is sweet, he clings to the tendrils of partial-unconsciousness and pleads, begs; the light, the memories, he doesn't want them back. He wants to lay here and listen, listen and carefully lose himself in the shifting emotions, in the mixed tones.

But it isn't meant to be. The darkness recedes, and he's on a strange bed, in a warm room so strange but hauntingly familiar. The room is bathed in a fiery orange glow from artificial lights, The bed bathed in soft crimson sheets, his body is still heavy, his head is slowly thudding back into normalcy but there is no one near him, no one close by that could have been speaking to him in that voice, the voice he misses so much, that he's dreamed of hearing, that he's feared to hear in his nightmares.

Charles is sitting on one side of a table, back against Erik, wearing a button up white shirt that was a little too big: long sleeves covering up to Charles' , far too much space between the cloth and Charles' torso, going down to his mid-thigh. Those long, lean legs are bare to the room, and the navy blue of Charles' boxer-briefs are probably the single and most erotic undergarment Erik has ever beheld (not that he has ever wanted to unclothe someone, no, not since then, not since he left, and even then Charles was angelic, possibly the best untouchable fantasy that has ever been imagined, and his fingers itch to touch that which is forbidden).

"I don't understand...your reasoning. Your logic." Charles continues, unabashed or unaware of Erik's attention. "Ironic, isn't it? How one of the very last things you tell me, right before you disappear is that I can always seem to read everyone. Everyone hated my power, would always react negatively when I used it, when they found out what I could do. They don't know the extent of it, you don't know the extent of my power. It's frightening.I bet you probably never knew that. Didn't know that I'm terrified of myself, that I'm terrified that I can't read you sometimes, and i think you're dead, and I think back to the past, imagine how things may have turned out If I had let go. I'm keeping hold of that, the simple yet brutally naive idea that maybe-that I did the right choice."

A pause. Charles sighs and slouches further towards the table, elbow resting atop the counter, head resting on his hand.

"I did, you know; I never regretted it, If I had to go back, do it again I'd... I'd do it again. Go through it all, the pain and the loss and the misery, because those short moments where like glimpses of something that I can't even reach out for anymore, like the sight of land after years and years lost at sea. Glimpses of something that I can no longer attain. It's that, those secret moments together, those fleeting moments of bliss, knowing that there was someone-god-" Charles breaks off into a breathy gasp and only then does Erik realize that Charles is crying, silent tears that he shouldn't be shedding. "I wasn't alone, and it felt like you understood but you left, you left and everything broke apart."

Erik can't move, or doesn't want to, but he can speak; there are no words, though, to give, he has no soothing words to wipe away the anguish, not words to explain himself, to apologize because all he knows, all he can acknowledge is that it's his fault, plain and simple. There was a moment, the one that could have changed everything, changed the world and he had walked away without a word, without cause because he was afraid. Erik was afraid to lose all that he had but he lost it anyway.

He lost _Charles_.

Suddenly Charles' head snapped to the side and he looked at Erik dead on with wide, surprised blue eyes, tear tracks drying on his flushed cheeks, crystallized droplets clinging onto his lashes pathetically. His hair was mussed and Charles took a brief moment to stand and take a step back, followed by another shaky step.

"E-Erik!" Charles sounded genuinely shocked. Erik figures he must have not noticed when the metal-kine had awoken from his induced slumber. "Oh, Erik, I'm dreadfully sorry for having done what I did today, but please understand that I-I'm stressed and tired and I lost control of my powers briefly, I'm so, so sorry!" Charles, mortified, started to shake his head and when those pleading blue eyes struck Erik's partially dazed gaze Erik found his mind echoing those words that had been slipped in the morose soliloquy.

 _"They don't know the extent of it, you don't know the extent of my power. It's frightening.I bet you probably never knew that. Didn't know that I'm terrified of myself"_ And Erik couldn't, for the life of him, stay angry or hurt at what Charles had done. Not when he looked so obviously wrecked, the dark spot under his eyes more pronounced, the weariness behind the guilt and pain in those marvelous eyes, the way his shoulders sagged like a man that has given up. That wasn't Charles. No, Charles was the kind of guy that would jump into sub-zero waters to save a stranger, reach into the murky, dark depths of his mind only to bring out the light that was thought to be extinguished. No, Charles was the kind of man that would turn his back on the strict moral code to hold a man silent while Erik, Erik-

"Stop it. Please, Erik, please just-stop. Thinking." Charles whispers and Erik winces. Erik carefully and slowly made to sit up on the bad, not breaking eye contact. Charles seemed hesitant and a little afraid but he didn't move, didn't leave or speak, just waited for Erik to finish getting into position.

"You know, right? You know what's going to happen." Erik finally spoke, a little pleased that his voice was as strong as it was and not as gruff as he'd expect. His throat felt like shards of glass had pummeled their way down his esophagus.

"I'm a telepath, Erik." Charles spoke slowly, cautiously. "Not a clairvoyant." He's stalling and they both know it. The air in the room is suffocating and what was once a warm caress in the room has quickly shifted into a scalding embrace bent to suffocate, air shifts once more, to something bitter. Something almost tragic, nostalgic.

Erik swallows the knot in his throat, ignoring the pain.

"You know, though, you saw it in my mind. You know what I'm going to say." Erik pauses and Charles stubbornly remains silent."Then go ahead. Say what you always do, what you know I will always fight." and in his mind there's a challenge, a constant "Do it do it do it do it-"that's running over and over and over again like a scratched record, repeating the same curt verse. It's the same every time; the same patterns, the same routine.

Meaningless squabbles. Empty words. Broken promises. The ghost of the past keeping them at arms length.

It's all they have left, really. There's the fear that anything more will truly break them apart, that anything less will strengthen the rift and push them apart until there is nothing less. Worse of all is the fear that maybe they will talk, and not argue, and their words will finally have meaning, and the past will be forgotten, and the future will become hazy, their relationship will change and suddenly everything will complicate and the walls will come tumbling down and the wounds that hadn't fully healed will reopen and, and-

-and Erik doesn't believe that he deserves the forgiveness, the second chance.

He doesn't deserve _Charles_.

* * *

  
 _It's him, he's out there and the waters are dark and cold, numbing and there's no end to the abyss. The submarine is already deep underwater and there's no way to get it back, no way to complete his mission and he's too late, too late, always too late._   


_The watch on his wrist goes tick-tock._

 _Tick-tock._

 _The air is crushed from his lungs in the increasing pressure of the water as he slinks deeper and deeper in, fighting to remain conscious as he fights to keep his hold on the submarine._

 _Always too late._

 _Tick-Tock._

 _Warm arms wrap around his chest, a smooth voice breaks his attention and the mantra of 'get him get him won't let him go, not this time' and suddenly he's no longer alone anymore, he's here, in these bitter waters, blind and there's nothing captured in his outstretched hands: not Shaw, not the submarine. All he sees when he opens his eyes in the stinging waters is the faint silhouette of the ship as it disappears from his grasp._

 _"Let go. You have to let this go."_

 _He's too late._   


* * *

 

"Erik. Stop." Charles pleads.

Erik bites his lips. It's impossible to stop now. He's tired, tired of this game, of this charade that they put up. He's wounded worse than ever, and this is the only way to heal. He had promised to never think, to never remember but there's no other way.

The memories are all he has left.

 

* * *

  
 _His name is Charles. His sister is Raven, blue and red with yellow and beautiful no matter what she thinks. Amazingly Charles doesn't see the discomfort she feels in her own natural skin. He laughs. He smiles. His eyes shine when they talk and he's exuberant where Erik is wary, he's kind where Erik is gruff. They stay at a government base and spend more time together than alone. Charles knows that Erik itches to leave._

 _"You can leave whenever you want" Charles says solemnly a week later._

 _There's no smile. No light in his eyes._

 _Erik stays anyway._

 _They find others just like them, other mutants._

 _Tick-Tock._

 _There's Logan. He's ruthless, like an animal. Raven makes a joke and calls him "Wolverine". They all laugh; the government mercenary keeps the name. Three years later the very same costume will be strewn across the floor of a murder scene. The name will be filed under "deceased" in government files._

 _There's Emma. She wears white like snow and is like Charles. She looks down at everyone else. Charles is stronger than her. She doesn't mess with him. Or Erik._

 _Then there's Rogue, who's more afraid of herself than anyone. Her hair is brown with strips of white. Her smile is worn, her smile is faked. She looks tired. (of What?) She looks tired of living._

 _Scott is a prude. He speaks to everyone as if he's older, but he's barely passed twenty._

 _Tick-Tock._

 _Shaw finds them. Attacks their base._

 _Rogue isn't seen again._

 _The group starts to break away._

 _Erik never leaves Charles' side._   


* * *

 

Between them there is only silence. Charles looks dazed. Erik bites at his lip and closes his eyes.

It's time to relive their past.

 

* * *

  
 _They take Henry McCoy, a brilliant, bright young mind that is so similar to Charles, so similar to Raven. He worked with the CIA. Charles takes him into his and Raven's old brick home, pointing out scientific marvels as they pass._

 _The government is angry. They send their agent to talk to them._

 _Moira is smart, CIA and ready to do what's right even though it's against orders. Erik is wary, but eventually tolerates and begins to enjoy the operatives' presence. She looks at Charles with longing._

 _Erik wonders if he has that same look on his face, too._

 _Tick-Tock._

 _She's the first to die in the explosion. The east wing completely collapses over Erik and Moira. The impact was directly on the wall she leaned on. Erik couldn't bare to look at the mangled, mutilated corpse he pulled out of the ruble._

 _She deserved to die with dignity._

 _Erik is angry. The only portion of the wall left standing has scorch marks that look like hand prints and scratch marks on the bricks beside the prints._

 _Charles told him that the only think that could harm the modified blocks is diamond._

 _Emma is no where to be found._

 _That night they make love. Charles is hurt and Erik is lonely and he's wanted Charles for so long and there are tears, sobs and pants and Charles goes to sleep instantly as Erik stays awake the whole night watching Charles sleep because he's beautiful, he's humanity and perfection and the only thing that gives him hope in mankind, in a dark world that devours people and spits them out just the way Erik has been tossed out._

 _Tick-tock._

 _The next day, Charles trains with him._

 _"I believe that the source of your power lies between rage and serenity."_

 _Erik thinks of his mother but the image is riddle with guilt and remorse. Instead, he thinks of Charles in his bed, tears drying, cheeks flushed, hair mussed._

 _The satellite moves upon his command._

 _Charles laughs and they grin at each other. Erik's heart flutters at the sight of Charles' almost shy smile._

 _Serenity._

 _Tick-Tock._

 _Shaw. He had been there all along, using Emma and her mind to attack them when they least expect it._

 _He taunts them._

 _"Your mother-"_

 _Too late._

 _"-Rogue-"_

 _Too late._

 _There's a hand around Charles' throat. Bruises are blooming under the tight grip and Emma is fighting a red Russian with a devilish grin and a pointed tail that whips angrily behind his brusque form. She's crying and muttering but Shaw can't hear, can't feel the regret-anger-loathing that the telepath is emitting._

 _Always too late._

 _Tick-_

 _Erik cries out as he charges at Shaw. They scramble on the floor of the charred study, each kick a ton of bricks, each punch is bone-crushing and finally, finally, Shaw pins Erik to the wall. Shaw smirks and taunts and jeers but Erik doesn't hear as Charles takes down Azazel from the inside out; the mutant simply vanishes silently in a puff of acrid smoke. Shaw smirks and his hand begins to glow with energy buildup._

 _"And now you, mein sohn, maybe if you had remained by my side you could have lived, could have been powerful." Shaw sighs dramatically, perhaps too trusting of his henchman._

 _Serenity._

 _Really, Shaw must have known better than to wear a metal helmet._

 _It's off Before Shaw blinks._

 _Charles is in Shaw's head._   


* * *

 

"I never made it a secret, Charles. You knew. You had always known, hadn't you? That I would kill him?"

"...yes."

 

* * *

  
 _He stops when he hears Charles cry out. The Reichsmark slips out of Shaw's skull with as little as a small crack._

 _Charles collapses. Raven cries out. Hank holds her as she tries to scramble to her brother with busted knees and a twisted ankle. Erik is breathing hard and yells at them to leave._

 _The metal in the entire mansion rattles._

 _They leave without another word._

 _Emma is crying on the floor. Erik ignores her for Charles, who's groaning and bleeding from his nose._

 _"C-Calm your mind, my friend." Erik wants to cry. He doesn't deserve to be called as such. "R-Remember. Rage and serenity."_

 _"Charles, you are my serenity."_

 _It's sad how honest he is._

 _-tock._

 _His watch, an old thing from before he escaped Shaw, is in ruins beside Shaw's dead, stiff body._

 _It's late._   


* * *

 

"I left because...because I knew that if I stayed I would keep hurting you. I left because the government wanted us to become their personal army. They wanted us to fight their wars, to be their pawns." Erik says carefully. Charles stays quite. He only moves forward, one step at a time. "I couldn't-registration, Charles. And then everyone, Hank retired, Wolverine left to work for the government and-and-"

"Erik. I don't mean to, to sound so vain but why did you-oh, I'm sorry. Nevermind. I must be more tired than I thought." Charles quirks a slight grin and turns.

But Erik heard him. In his head.

 _"Why did you leave me?"_

 __

* * *

 _  
"I love you"_

 _Charles. Charles._

 _He leaves in the cover of the night._

 _His chest tightens painfully and he closes his eyes, tries to pass of the tingles of reminiscent touches on his back and chest as chills to no avail._

 _He's just going to hurt Charles._

 _He's dark and can't continue with this; registration, murder, hatred. This is what Erik is for. Charles shouldn't be tainted by this corrupt world._

 _And Erik is the most corrupt there is out there._

 _A figure watches from the window._

 _Blue eyes close. Tears beg to be freed. A sigh escapes kiss-swollen lips and Charles lays back against the pillows on the window-sill._

 _"I promise to never leave your side"_

 _Charles wanted to laugh ruefully._

 _"You can't lie to a telepath" he had wanted to say._

 _Before he laid in bed he gave Erik a final kiss, short and sweet and painful._

 _It was a goodbye._   


* * *

 

Erik can't lie.

He's a little scared.

"Charles I-"

"Please. Please don't. I don't think I could bear to hear what you have to say." Charles whispers, leaning against the wall to the right of the bed. Erik opens his mouth to speak before thinking twice.

"What was I going to say?" Erik finally asks.

"That you didn't mean to. You didn't want to hurt me. Taint me. I don't need to read your mind, Erik. I know you. I know how people are now. I know how they think." Charles' smile is rueful now. Forced. Faked.

It makes Erik rethink his original objective.

"You don't know-"

"Yes, you've said that before." Erik retorts before thinking. Charles freezes and Erik almost takes back his words. Almost.

"S-So you heard that, did you?" Charles bites out tartly. "well, that is what it is and I won't retract a word of my supposed soliloquy if it makes you think any better of the situation." Charles' voice is harsh and bitter but those eyes, those expressive, blue eyes speak volumes. They speak of sadness and dejection, of bleak nights and lonely days.

Not for the first time Erik thinks that maybe Charles waited for him the next morning, waited for him to return, to keep all those promises that he made, to keep that smile on Charles' lips, to simply stay but he hadn't. He ran away, like he always did. Because that's what he knew to do, the only thing, right? He ran away from the battle, ran away from the peace, because deep inside he knew that he hadn't meant "Peace was never an option" he meant that this-what they _could_ have had wasn't an option, not for him, not for this despicable coward that made promises of forever and couldn't even stay until the next morning.

"You seem to keep these strange delusions," Charles started, eyes mysterious and unreadable as they observe Erik most dutifully," that I am some sort of intemerate idol that mustn't be even tinged in an ounce of shadow in fear of being tainted or wiped out." Erik flushed slightly but his gaze didn't waver away from Charles' for any instant. The silence casually spread and Charles sighed, broke eye contact and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You're wrong. I know plenty of the horrors of the world."

"But you don't let it change you." Erik interjects, pushing himself so that he sits over the edge of the bed instead of sitting up against the wall and headboard. "And that-that is what makes you Charles."

It may be the right thing to say, or maybe the worst, but Charles' eyes are full of tears and his body quivers ever-so-slightly. Erik's eyes widen marginally and he dashes forward to envelope his arms around the smaller man's torso. Despite the earlier fatigue and confusion, his body is quick and lithe. His arms go around that trim waist and press Charles into his shoulder with so softly, so gently that Charles shakes with the sheer affection in it. Erik bites his lip as Charles' smaller frame shakes with the sobs that wrack through his body.

"How, no, why? Even after all this time, after everything, _why do you still see me like that?_ Like I'm-I'm something precious and-" Charles' hands clench Erik's black turtleneck in pale, trembling fists. "I-I know that I'm not, I'm not but you-"

"Charles," Erik mutters and Charles stops and waits," to me, you will always be the light. Optimism." Erik states as he slips a hand from the small of Charles' back to his damp cheek, moving the telepath's face from his shoulder. Charles freezes, their eyes lock and the space between them shrinks until Erik is all but breathing Charles' air.

"Perfection."

Their lips pressed together in a firm but gentle touch, brushing once before meeting again and Charles' eyes prickled with he sheer, visceral ardor that softened the hardened edges of both their minds.

It had been too long.

Each long, slow kiss was finalized with a smaller one, like another apology for all the time wasted, all of the times they would meet, just like this, claim their sides just like this but never touch the tender subjects, unlike today, unlike tonight, reliving and seeing all of that which led them here, to this moment, kissing under the illusion that they'll remain together, _just like this,/i >, tomorrow. But Charles is satisfied, despite hearing the whispers of _tomorrow, next week, next month, years to come, forever_ in Erik's mind, he'll be satisfied with _today, with right here, right now_ because he knows that forever fades away, that eternity is only a myth and it's best to get what he can, to feel this way right now because tomorrow, tomorrow Erik will be gone, and tomorrow he will wake up, he'll look around and feel as lifeless as he has for weeks._

But Erik is here, the warmth that's bursting in his chest is flowing through his numb body is there, keeps growing and tomorrow can wait.

Charles has no qualms in wrapping his arms around Erik's neck to press himself closer, doesn't hesitate to quickly pull himself up and wrap his bared legs around Erik's waist. His eyes are still prickling with tears as Erik's lips whisper sweet lies and promises into his ear while he tries to pull the shirt off of Erik's broad frame. They landed in the bed ad Charles quickly pressed himself against Erik, kissing at those barely moving lips to silence, to stifle the endearments because each word was like another ache to his heart and each kiss is a pardon.

But most of all, he can't stand to look into those mossy green eyes, to think of what Erik sees in _Charles_ and know who he really is, who he has become. He can't stand those appraising eyes that stare at him like he's this perfect marvel and know that he's everything but.

A hand brushes the hem of Charles' shirt and Charles shudders and tears his lips away.

"Do it. Do it." Charles breaths, starting at the top buttons with shaky hands. "I want you to, god, Erik, do it." Erik's eyes flutter and almost shut but those hands-large and warm with harsh callouses, start to slowly unbutton the crisp white shirt until both sides spread themselves open to reveal creamy pale skin, marred with lightly raised scars. The whisper of a touch causes Charles to gasp and arch his back, pressing into the noticable bulge in Erik's trousers. Erik shifts in his straddling and suddenly Charles is looking down on Erik.

"Will you be here... in the morning?"

 _Tick-Tock_

Charles buries his head in the crook of Erik's neck and waits patiently, mesmerized by the thump-thump-thump of Erik's pulse and their joint breathing.

 _Tic-Tock_

"Only if you want me." _'Or I can stay here forever.'_ Comes Erik's thought right behind his response.

 _'Forever fades away'_ Charles wants to say but he doesn't, he can't because it's Erik. Erik, so cold and harsh but incredibly kind because he still waits, waits for humanity to prove him wrong, never strikes until there's another word put in. He still thinks that somehow, someday humanity can redeem itself. Erik is beautiful.

Charles closes his eyes and feels out his power, trespasses into Erik's mind and implants a slight suggestion that won't come into fruition until later.

Because in the morning, Charles will wake up alone.

He's made sure of it.

Erik sighs and places a kiss to Charles' lips before slowly slipping his hands down the telepath's sides to rest at the navy waistband.

And for now, for these few seconds, it's only them two, basking in their mortality as time slowly ceases to Exist.

 _Tick..._

 _...Tock_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello darkness, my old friend,  
>  I've come to talk with you again,  
> Because a vision softly creeping in,  
> Left its seeds while I was sleeping,  
> And the vision that was planted in my brain  
> Still remains  
> Within the sound of silence._\--"The Sound Of Silence"


End file.
